A Heated Debate Between Two Charismatic Geniuses: A Cardinal Fan (Jeff Lung) and a Tiger Fan (Allen Krause)

What Joe Carter Taught My Dad About His Son

If you called me an insane, obsessed, socially maladjusted freak in regards to my passion for the game of baseball, you would be absolutely correct. Try as I might to cover up the idiosyncratic ticks that put me at the top of the weird charts, there really is no denying my beyond reasonable quirkiness. In fact, baseball has long affected my dating life, my filial responsibilities, my job.

So you can imagine the worry and fear experienced by my dearest friends and loved ones when the MLB Network officially launched earlier this year. It has been alluded to that since the network aired, getting in contact with me has been harder than taking Sarah Palin seriously. This I cannot deny.

Besides getting the inside scoop on all things off-season baseball from the Hot Stove Show, shedding man-tears watching Mookie’s grounder trickle between Buckner’s legs and vehemently arguing/defending the selections of Prime 9, I have also been forced to evaluate the roots of my undying passion for our national pastime and why it means so much to me.

Which takes me back to the beginning…

Unlike many young boys, my father had very little to do with my interest in baseball. As great a man as he was (still is), he always had a calm reserve — an indifferent nature towards the game. Sure, he was a fan of sorts; but he wasn’t nuts about it in any way. His sister was. Yes, it’s all her fault. My dear Aunt Alice and her husband, Uncle Iggy, were absolutely wild about baseball and they molded me into a young, opinionated, domineering superfan at an early age.

Indeed, no two people had a greater effect on my psycho-following of the St. Louis Cardinals. They ate, slept and breathed Cardinals baseball (still do); their fiery enthusiasm infected me before I could even walk. Upon reflection, my earliest baseball memory is the St. Louis Post-Dispatch’s front page color photo of bedlam at Busch after the 1982 World Series. Emulating Jack Clark’s short swing and despising Don Denkinger came soon after. With the help of my aunt and uncle, it wasn’t long before I was memorizing the starting lineup of the ’85 club and dreaming of being Ozzie Smith.

My father took a backseat to this unruly creation of a Redbird child. While supportive of my decision to “go crazy, folks, go crazy” while reenacting Ozzie’s fist pump around the bases, it was clear that Dad didn’t quite understand what all the fuss was about. Despite the quizzical looks he gave when I argued to stay home and watch the game rather than go to the video arcade, he accepted the fact that his son was some kind of weirdo.

As soon as I could operate the VCR, I was recording any and every baseball game on television. During the long the winter months I watched those games with the same intensity with which I watched them the first time. Then I’d watch them again. And again and again.

“I haven’t seen all of it. There’s too much going on all at once. I’m watching just Pena this time. Just Pena. Watch.”

And he would… he would placate my desire… because he saw how important it was to me.

It was very important to me.

My parents were divorced. It got ugly at times. I lived with my dad, separated from my sister, who lived with my mom a hundred miles away. While my childhood spun around in chaotic circles of arguments, misunderstandings and fear, the melodic pace and harmonic rhythm of baseball calmed me like no drug ever could: the unique sound of Tom Brunansky’s bat, a whipping line-drive snagged by Pendleton at third, a Ken Daley strikeout. No matter what the final score, baseball, with its disregard for time and its indifferent ability to create heroes and villains and bystanders, became the one constant in my life.

It kept me sane.

So it was October, 1993, and I found myself in a certain state of panic. I was a selfish 14 year old boy who couldn’t imagine missing Game 6 of the ’93 Series and I wasn’t about to be quiet about it. In Tulsa, Oklahoma at the time to cheer on my dad (a marathon runner) in the 15k Tulsa Run, my complaining escalated — eventually becoming more annoying than persuading. The race was long over, but we were not anywhere near a television; the game had started and the anticipation was killing me.

Several shrills of suffering and an hour or so later we were finally in the comforts of a relative’s home, watching the game.

My dad rested his tired legs and read the newspaper while I glued myself to the t.v. set, still jittery, shaken, upset from missing the first five innings of play. It was 5-1 Blue Jays and Dad uttered: “See, it’s gonna be a blowout anyway, Jeff.”

I grit my teeth.

And when the Phillies went on a tear in the seventh inning, scoring five runs to take a 6-5 lead, I looked back at him and said, “This is why you can never turn off a game, Dad. Anything is possible.”

Fed up with my whining, he reluctantly put his paper down just in time to see Devon White fly out.

Paul Molitor singl
ed.

Joe Carter dug in.

I heard the rustling of Dad’s newspaper again, but before he could get into the reading position I shot him a glare so vicious, so maniacal, so threatening that he had no choice but to put it back down and focus on the game… just in time to see this:

Unaffiliated with the Blue Jays, unaffiliated with the Phillies, but fully affiliated with the wondrous game of baseball, I shot to my feet and screamed like a little girl. My whole being gushed with excitement, with incredulity, with a burning sensation never before felt as Carter jumped and ran the bases.

I looked at my dad, his jaw on the floor, eyes lit up like the Skydome fireworks.

“Did you see that, Dad!?! Did you see that!?!”

“I… I saw it. I don’t believe it but I… I saw it.”

“Don’t you see, Dad? Anything’s possible.”

“I guess you’re right. Anything is possible.”

If you can dream it, it can happen.

That’s the lesson baseball taught me, the lesson Joe Carter taught my dad, the lesson that comes from having a father who believes in you…

I love you, Dad. And don’t forget… you can’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right. You said it yourself on October 23, 1993.

12 Comments

Jeffy – I think this is one THE best blogs I have ever read! Thank you for sharing so much of yourself with us! And yes, when life is crazy, insane and totally out of our control, baseball can be the one constant. The one thing that you can cling. And more then anything else – it teaches that nothing – no matter how impossible it seems – nothing is over until the last out is made. Case in point – Mother’s Day, May 13, 2007 – Fenway Park. Red Sox vs The Orioles.

Jeff,
This is honestly one of the greatest entries I’ve ever read on this site! I laughed, and I had this indescribable smile on my face when I watched that video of Joe Carter hitting that incredible home run. Baseball is always there for us, and I think it always will be. In the game… somehow, I don’t even know how… we can just forget about everything else that’s bothering us in our lives. Even watching replays of other games (which I do all the time), we can get just as excited. It’s some kind of indescribable joy that nothing else can give you.
-Elizabethhttp://redsoxgirl46.mlblogs.com

Thank you, both of you. You’re too kind. Julia, as for 5/13/07, I’m just glad I wasn’t Chris Ray. He’s probably still beating himself up for that drop.
Elizabeth — You’re right on point. That’s why the MLB Network is so addictive to someone like me. I just saw that “Seasons” show over the weekend, 1986 and 1995… talk about holding back the tears. Wow.
–Jeff

Jeff, this was amazing. Thank you for sharing this with us. I’d never seen that home run before, and I had the biggest smile on my face when he hit it because of what you’d just written. I’m glad your dad got to learn something about you that day. I’m sure it’s something that’s made you who you are today.
Jenhttp://ajroxmywhitesox.mlblogs.com

Wow, Jeff. This is just…beautiful. And thanks for reminding us about the best part about baseball: absolutely anything can happen. Every other sport is ruled by the clock, which ends any hopes of a miracle when it expires. Not in baseball. Until the final out is recorded, there’s always hope.
-Erinhttp://plunking-gomez.mlblogs.com

Nice recollection of your pop. I can think of many times I wanted my dad to put down his paper because there was something he “had” to see. I thought of that this year as I was watching the Rays and cheering for them all the way. I thought I would explain anything was possible to my child if I had one. Nice post.
tomhttp://rockymountainway.mlblogs.com

Why is the parent always the last to know. First I read Allen’s post about Jeff and the MLB Network and now this tear jerker about his growing up with baseball. I really just thought he was working too hard and wouldn’t answer my phone calls. He got most of the facts right with todays blog. But I beg to differ with him about my indeference to the game. I loved the Cardinals just as much as the others in the family, I was just not able to recite every conceivable fact since the beginning of time about baseball like Jeff. Someone had to work and put food on the table and make money for those tickets to Busch stadium to see Ozzie. And how about the game to see Mcguire hitting number 68 at home or was it 61. Ask Jeff he’ll know. As Jeff and I both get older I’ve been trying to get him to be more tolerant of the other teams out there,especially since we have a Cub fan in the family now, but i’m afraid I will die of old age before that happens. Tell me Jeff how much more time do we have with you before that spring training thing starts?????

Thanks again, ya’ll. Like Yogi said, “It ain’t over…”
As for you, Baba, it was 62, off of Trachsel… how could you forget? Jeesh. Growing up you’d mention Koufax and Drysdale in passing but I never heard you buzz about Gibby or Brock. Your memory is fading fast….
–Jeff

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